


Michelangelo and His Muse

by au_sein_et_sans



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, bossuet and marius maybe?, enjolrasxgrantaire - Freeform, exr - Freeform, no?, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 10:28:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3525860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/au_sein_et_sans/pseuds/au_sein_et_sans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based off of the prompt: "Enjolras accidentally sees what’s in Grantaire’s sketchbook, and notices that most of the drawings look a lot like him." It turned into a pining Enjolras not-so-accidentally reads and kind of steals Grantaire's sketchbook but then it's all ok in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Michelangelo and His Muse

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, any potential readers, this is my first fic - I seriously hope you dig it! If you liked it please please read my author's note at the end.

“No, there’s nothing wrong,” Marius was saying, taking an upturned stool from the dirty floor of the bar and stacking it on the table, “it’s just something I’ve noticed. About somebody.”

 “Well, you’ve started already, lad, you have to follow through,” Bossuet said, through the mouth of his beer bottle. He sat backwards in his chair, not bothering to help the rest of Les Amis as they cleaned up the dirty bar. 

 This outing of the boys had been less destructive than times in the past. Most of the chairs and glasses they used could be salvaged. The boys were a bit of a whirlwind, as Enjolras remarked to himself one day, always blowing into bars and out - shouting rowdy songs about vulgar things and then disappearing into their own little coves and hideaways - only to reemerge the next time they were summoned. 

 “I have to do nothing of the sort,” Marius snapped, as he continued to scrub down the bar. 

 “It’s so kind of you to help,” Enjolras finally piped up from his position at the sink. Marius paused in his duty, his eyes following the movement of the dish-washing. Enjolras had asked the four of them, Marius, Bossuet, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre, to help him restore his uncle’s bar back to use after inviting Les Amis for a drink. 

 They were inseparable, all of them, even after being in other colleges on different campuses (though they were all very close together). The boys had united on their general interest in government, whether it be by hatred or curiosity, each boy found refuge in the others company. Enjolras liked to say he started it, although it was really him and Combeferre - Courfeyac following closely behind. They looked to him as a leader, although some more than others. 

 “Okay, then, just give me a hint,” Bossuet said, leaning onto the back two legs of his chair, still nursing his one beer, “who is this ‘nothing’ about?”

 Enjolras looked up in time to see Marius’s eyes meet fleetingly with his own. 

 “No one,” the boy mumbled, and Bossuet sighed very dramatically. 

 Rolling back in his chair and nearly toppling himself over he asked, “is it about a girl?”

 Marius sighed - a great heaving thing - mimicking Bossuet seconds before. “If you _must_ know, it’s about Grantaire.”

 Enjolras’s body involuntarily tensed at the name. 

 It wasn’t that Enjolras hated the name - or even hated the person attached to it. In reality, if he dug down deep enough, Enjolras could even summon a few almost positive adjectives to describe Grantaire. For example, one might be “persistent” because if anything, Grantaire was persistent. He was persistent enough to weasel his way into Les Amis, although he showed a disinclination to Enjolras from the start. 

 Another might be “personable”. When he wasn’t drunk, Grantaire could be extremely charming. And even when he was drunk, he was more charming than the rest of them. His dry humor, and biting comebacks were the most sharpened of the group, and (when it wasn’t targeted at you) his exchanges could be extremely entertaining. 

 Unfortunately, more often than not, Enjolras found himself on the wrong end of those exchanges - the receiving end - and although he was good with words, he could never quite defend himself against Grantaire. He felt…dismantled. 

 There was something certainly jarring about the way Grantaire looked at people, at Enjolras in particular. With a darkness and ferocity, but then tinged with some humor, as if he was in a perpetual state of laughing at a joke that no one else ever got. It threw Enjolras for a loop, if anything. And the uncharacteristic loveliness of his features had more than a little to do with this. 

 “What about Grantaire?” Bossuet asked, a small grin playing at his lips - his interest piqued. 

 Marius threw down the dishtowel. “Now this is exactly what I didn’t want to start. As far as I know, there’s nothing ‘about’ Grantaire, and if there was I wouldn’t tell you.”

 Bossuet faked being wounded, placing a heart to his chest. “I’m offended.” When Marius didn’t respond, Bossuet glanced at Enjolras with more than a bit of malicious intent. “Would you tell Enjolras?”

 Marius glanced at Bossuet, eyebrow quirked. “If I felt he needed to know.”

 Enjolras stayed quiet. It was true, he had noticed there was something ‘about’ Grantaire recently. Today, he had tucked himself in the back corner of the bar, sketching furiously in his notebook, taking the occasional sip of wine, but never got intoxicated (which was uncharacteristic). Enjolras had written it off as cram-studying for a final, but as he now thought about it, those were fairly far away and Grantaire never studied. 

 Combeferre emerged from the kitchen, Courfeyrac following closely behind. 

 “Everyone can rest easy - the ammonia smell was just an bottle of cleaning stuff that Joly left open in the kitchen,” Combeferre announced, before taking a seat next to Bossuet. Enjolras continued washing dishes. 

 He hadn’t spoken a word yet, which was a strange experience, but something about the conversation before had sparked something within him. Grantaire hadn’t even looked up, earlier, when there was a chance to disabuse Enjolras’s passionate beliefs - which is close to his favorite pastime. He hadn’t even looked up the entire time, really.

 Enjolras felt very wrongly robbed of something - he felt emptied almost - of a pair of blue eyes. He wanted to squeeze the soap water over his head. 

 “You alright there?” Courfeyac asked, very quietly, across the counter to Enjolras, and he was almost startled by the question. 

 “Um, fine,” he said quickly, wringing the dishtowel. He turned to the rest of the room, “thank you, all, for the help.”

 “Is this our dismissal?” Bossuet asked, playfully, standing up. “Are we free to leave?”

 After a few protestations, Enjolras was able to herd the remaining few Amis out of his bar, and watched them for a second, as they walked down the snowy street. He turned back to the now abandoned bar, not bothering to stack up Bossuet’s chair that lay in the middle of the room. Everything was silent, as his friends voices faded from earshot, and he was left with his thoughts. 

 Grantaire’s fingers smudging the paper, expertly and nimbly. He stared at whatever it was he was drawing with such intent and purpose that it made something twist in Enjolras’s stomach as he thought about it. Everyone is passionate about something. 

 Turning to leave, Enjolras looked towards his right for his jacket, and found it under a booth. Ducking down to retrieve it, he found himself eye level with the seat - where a leather-bound notebook lay, abandoned. It was earthen-toned, blending right in with the material of the booth. A golden, spiraling “R” hoarded the entirety of the cover. 

 Enjolras’s heart skipped to his throat for a second, and his fingers felt a bit numb as he picked up the drawing book from where it sat. He traced the edges with his finger - carefully, lovingly - as he saw Grantaire do so many times before. 

  _To open or not to open?_

 To open, was the overwhelming choice, as Enjolras agonized over the ethical question for all of two seconds. Maybe it was an invasion of privacy, maybe he had a right to read it, either way he had a pretty good chance of getting away with it without anyone knowing. 

 The first drawing was a glass of wine, scribbled crudely across the thick parchment paper. Grantaire had obviously spent little time on it - maybe he was too plastered to see what he was doing. Either that or he was less of an artist than he made it seem. 

 These thoughts were put to rest as Enjolras turned the page and it was the most breathtaking picture of a flag he had ever seen. It was the french flag, but twisted around itself, billowing through the air. The immense detail put into the cloth of the flag was juxtaposed with the simple sky-line in the background. Enjolras could identify this place - it was right in the park that was in the middle of the city, just a small expanse of grass where they met sometimes. Enjolras ran his fingertips over the picture, unable to control the impulse. 

 He turned the page. The next was the back of a head - golden curls thrown back against the wind - only a small bit of the face in profile, just the tip of a nose, and the curve of a lip. The neck grew out of these curls, and the lines dissolved into shoulders until the drawing faded out midway down the back. The same attention to detail was put into this picture, as if done by a sewing needle dipped in ink. Enjolras almost missed the inscription at the bottom of the page which read: _you can see his smile through the back of his head_. Now that it was mentioned, Enjolras almost could, just given the impression from the general sunniness of the drawing. 

 Enjolras didn’t consider himself well-versed in art, but as he thumbed through Grantaire’s sketchbook he knew that this was talent. There were some scribbles of a camera, or a chair, or still-lifes (Enjolras was surprised to see a few flowers labeled: _lonely Sundays_ ) but they were mostly the same golden haired boy he saw a few pages in. 

 A lot of those pictures were shrouded by the hair - wind blowing the curls in various directions so the viewer couldn’t see the boy’s eyes or his features all at once. Enjolras began to fill them in, wondering who Grantaire would be fascinated with enough to draw them so many times in different ways. Standing up, sitting down, alone, isolated on a page. Each time accompanied with a one sentence phrase scrawled in delicate handwriting. _He speaks of liberty in love_ one said. And another: _I am not a poet, but I know a beautiful thing when I see one_.

 Enjolras wasn’t sure how much time had passed since his friends left, but it could’ve either been very long or very short until he reached about 3/4 way through the book, and reached the last drawn-on page. It was in charcoal - it had been what Grantaire was drawing that day. Enjolras could almost see the lingering fingerprints on the page where Grantaire had left them. The last picture was of the same boy - he was dressed all in black - standing as if for a full body portrait by a Renaissance painter. He looked proud and tall and majestic, curls laying limp by the sides of his face, falling into his eyes as he looked down at his feet. 

 Enjolras’s eyes trailed down the page, down to the feet of the boy, who Grantaire had put just as much attention to detail into, all the way to the bottom of the page. His heart stopped. 

  _Enjolras. Meaning: to terrify._

 Enjolras read and re-read the phrase. It had to mean something else - it had to _be_ someone else. But it was unmistakable. Grantaire drew Enjolras. 

 And not just that day, either. As Enjolras went back to quickly flip through the pages again, he began to see the similarities between all of the versions. A smile that quirked up slightly on the right side. A freckle behind the ear. Curls that fell and glided and landed here and there on the pages. Enjolras was seeing himself through Grantaire’s eyes. 

 And he was beautiful. 

 Enjolras’s heart thudded in his chest all the way down the street, and all the way around the block, and then through the town, and to Grantaire’s university campus, where Enjolras guided himself to the boy’s dorm room by muscle memory. He neared the few cement blocks of rooms, clutching the drawing book in his hands until they began to sweat. He couldn’t feel the winter wind against his face at all. 

 As he grew closer he began to worry a bit more about his game plan. He hadn’t thought at _all_ about what he was going to say - what he was going to do. He hadn’t even thought about what would happen if Grantaire wasn’t there. He hadn’t even thought about how he felt about the whole development. 

 But he did know, really. Grantaire with his long fingers and long legs and dry speech. His dark curls and bright eyes, and the way he lit up when he had a comeback planned. The way he shrouded himself in mystery, and locked himself away for days, to draw flowers and label them _lazy Sundays_. And the way that Enjolras would sit still forever and let Grantaire draw him for as long as he wanted. 

 Enjolras had reached the front door. He extended his hand, making two short raps on the door. He could hear shuffling on the inside, and his heart slowed and then started again, feeling both relieved and anxious that Grantaire was home. He heard Grantaire take a step, and his heart beat in time. 

 It was at this point that Enjolras found the irony in his name. He supposed to terrify all he meets - it’s in his title - and yet he’s ready to run home with his tail tucked beneath his legs in an instant. What if Grantaire meant something else by these drawings? What if he meant-

 The door swung open, and Enjolras was met with Grantaire’s face at last. 

 “Enjol-,” he barely managed to get out. 

 Tearing forward, Enjolras launched himself at Grantaire’s warm body. They collided, thin t-shirt against peacoat, and Enjolras tucked his hands onto either side of Grantaire’s face and kissed him, fervently. Grantaire’s soft, surprised lips opened easily at Enjolras’s touch, and he fell backward a few steps, and looped his hand around Enjolras’s back to steady himself. It was only a few seconds, and instantly Grantaire tore away in shock. 

 His hand flew up to his lips, fingers ghosting over his bottom lip. 

“You-,” he tried again. 

“…have your,” Enjolras dug through his knapsack, “notebook.”

Grantaire’s eyes widened larger than they were before. He stood, silently, in the middle of his room, and Enjolras suddenly felt very stupid and vulnerable.  _That isn’t what he meant by it at all. Now I’ve gone and intruded in his home, and kissed him, and stolen his notebook, and he’ll never talk to me again, and fuck me if that’s not the best kiss I’ve ever had._

Years go by before Grantaire finally took a step forward. 

“Um… May I?” He asked, and Enjolras ducked his head to hide his reddening face. He expected the notebook to be taken from his hands, to be rid from the only center of warmth he feels, before he felt the ghost of Grantaire’s pointer finger hook under his chin and pull his face upward. 

He’s perfectly still as Grantaire aligned their faces and slotted his lips slowly, softer than ever, into Enjolras’s. Enjolras stayed perfectly still, in fear he’d scare Grantaire away, or worse, that he’d wake up from the best dream he’s ever had. Grantaire pulled away, finally, with the ghost of a smile on his lips. 

“What’s so funny?” Enjolras almost hated to ask. 

“If I had known that would be your reaction,” Grantaire explained, stepping away, “I would’ve shown you that dumb book ages ago.”

Enjolras cleared the space between them and kissed Grantaire again - now tasting the salt and wine on the other boy’s skin. Grantaire slowly unbuttons Enjolras’s coat (a silent indication he’d be staying awhile) and the newfound meekness of Grantaire both surprised and amused Enjolras. As Grantaire dropped Enjolras’s knapsack to the ground, Enjolras recoiled, reluctantly. 

“Your book-,” he began, but Grantaire pulled his face back to facing him, and kissed a trail down Enjolras’s neck.  

“Keep it,” he murmured, as Enjolras threw his head back. Grantaire buried his fingers through the curls he spent hours drawing and redrawing. “I’ve got ten more, anyway.”

As Enjolras sucked Grantaire’s bottom lip into his mouth, he makes a vague mental note to ask to see those books, too.

 

**Author's Note:**

> AN: And scene. Thanks for reading! This was (again) my first fic, and I'm really new to this. I don't even know if this site has messaging at all, but if it does then shoot me a line or a text or something. Feedback, prompt ideas, anything - anything at all. Hope you enjoyed it! xx au sein et sans


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